


the heat clouding our view

by crookedspoon



Series: Inked & Bloody: Remix 'verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Breathplay, M/M, Orgasm Denial, POV Victor Trevor, Prompt Fic, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: If Victor had known Sherlock would be badgering him for sex every chance he got after Victor decided not to let him come a couple of times, he probably would not have started this.





	the heat clouding our view

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/gifts).



> For Day #11 "Orgasm Denial" at Kinktober and #4 “You know I love you, right? I have every intention of fucking you like I don’t.” from [this list on tumblr](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/160126800845/thread-starters-kink-edition).
> 
> I hadn't planned to write anything today. But then I thought, why shouldn't my bestie profit from my slightly insane productivity this Kinktober? Neurotoxia's been more than patient with me and my various obsessions. So this one's for you, love. Even if this didn't turn out anywhere near how I imagined this in the first place.

If Victor had known Sherlock would be badgering him for sex every chance he got after Victor decided not to let him come a couple of times, he probably would not have started this.

Sure, occasionally he needed a reminder that the two of them were in fact still a couple – something it's easy to forget when Sherlock's too busy to even look at him and his communication fizzles down to clipped monosyllables.

Victor is not by any means clingy or in need of much fussing, but Sherlock can make it hard for even Victor's robust ego. 

Which makes it all the weirder when Sherlock reacts this strongly to a bit of teasing. Victor hadn't expected to draw it out for so long, but Sherlock likes a challenge – and if Victor started one by saying "I bet you can't," Sherlock will be dead set on proving that he can, for way longer than Victor had planned on keeping it afloat.

So when Sherlock is propositioning Victor for sex in the studio's tiny bathroom for the third time this week, Victor is not sure whether Sherlock is that horny from his pent-up frustration or because he wants to punish Victor for starting this in the first place.

Or because he wants to punish himself. That's also an acceptable and very possible reason.

"If I promise to make it worth your while tonight," Victor asks, "will you leave me alone for the rest of the day? I can't concentrate when all I think about is your tongue in my ear and your prick digging into my thigh."

"Please," Sherlock sneers and snakes his hand past Victor's waistband, "you can ink dandelions in your sleep."

Victor shudders, and not only because of what Sherlock is about to do. "Don't remind me of the nightmares I'll be having in the coming week."

"You could be coming now." Sherlock's long fingers drag along Victor's definitely interested dick.

"Puns? Really, Sherlock, I sincerely apologise for what I've done to you, but as much as I want to fool around, I gotta get back." He yanks Sherlock's hand out of his pants with some reluctance. "Without an obvious boner to announce what we've been doing in here."

"I offered to help you get rid of it," Sherlock huffs.

"After giving it to me in the first place."

"I haven't even started 'giving—'"

"Later," Victor interrupts and kisses Sherlock on his blabbing mouth. Then he kicks him out of the washroom and sprinkles his face with cold water. Just because dandelions and birds taking flight is a common theme doesn't mean he wants to botch them because he's thinking of Sherlock going down on him in that cramped bathroom. Or wherever.

Justine would kick him out on his arse if a customer ever so much as breathed a complaint about his work.

* * *

Victor barely makes it two steps into his flat before Sherlock accosts him again. He would have preferred to have a snack beforehand, because he's bloody starving, but so is Sherlock, from the looks of it, and he is not going to be satisfied with a nice sandwich.

The two of them stumble toward the bedroom, kissing and groping and leaving clothing items in their wake. That's the upside of living in a shoebox: the bedroom, and consequently the bed (or what passes for one), is only about two steps away from the front door.

Sherlock drops to his knees even before Victor has kicked the bedroom door shut – a habit rather than a necessity. He hasn't lived under the same roof as his sisters for who knows how many years, but he still expects them to come snooping sometimes. There are some things you probably never grow out of.

Victor hauls Sherlock back up to his feet and slams his face into the door.

"You know I love you, right?" he rasps into Sherlock's ear and drags his hips against him.

"Save the speech," Sherlock says, a delighted grin on his face. "Just fuck me already."

Victor laughs. "Don't mind if I do then. And don't complain later."

"If you do your job right, I won't have to."

"My _job?_ That's it, I won't listen to your safeword even if you beg me for it."

Not that he would, not that Sherlock has ever safeworded out. But he counts on the effects his words might have.

And sure enough, Sherlock's pupils are swallowing the blue of his irises, and he's no doubt looking forward to what Victor is going to dish out. A new challenge for him to handle.

So then, let's get this party started.

He throws Sherlock onto his "bed" – and he couldn't be any more glad he _didn't_ turn it back into a sofa this morning. Though it was more groggy laziness than foresight of what was going to happen tonight.

Sherlock seems to have somehow discarded his briefs mid-flight, because he is now so very naked and inviting on Victor's bed, wiggling his hips in a way that drives Victor mad with lust. He doesn't waste another thought about it and simply grabs Sherlock. He slaps his arse and kneads it, nips at the meaty part of his buttocks – what passes for meaty with Sherlock – and flicks his tongue over his balls. By the time he goes to town on Sherlock's hole, Sherlock has lost all proficiency to speak.

That's a good start. Victor likes it when Sherlock is a puddle of hormones and more than ready to be played with. He grabs a condom and some lube from the nightstand and can't get his fingers coated fast enough. Sherlock matches his eagerness and is pushing back against him, as if he didn't care about whether or not Victor used any lube – as if all he cared about was that Victor penetrated him as quickly as possible, no matter if it turned out to be uncomfortable or not. 

Fuck, the mere thought of it had Victor hard enough to burst. Sherlock is an addiction, one that needed to be fed, and no amount of rational thought could convince Victor otherwise.

So he slides his fingers into Sherlock and drinks in his moans, while at the same time keeping his ears sharpened for when Sherlock might like to switch up the game.

After today and the encounter in the studio's bathroom, Victor has no patience to fool around anymore. He briefly considers how it must be for Sherlock, constantly crazy with need and holding off for another day. Victor certainly wouldn't be able to do it.

He coats his length liberally, then pushes into Sherlock without so much as a warning. Sherlock moans, and loudly, but it doesn't sound like he objects. Instead, he grinds back harder against Victor, forcing him deeper.

Victor's head falls back with a groan, and he tries to keep Sherlock's hips still.

As always, Victor is more concerned for Sherlock's well-being than Sherlock himself is. That is especially true when they've agreed to play a little rougher. It's easy to lose control because Sherlock welcomes every bit of attention Victor directs his way, no matter how harsh it may be. Sometimes, without visual cues to guide him, Victor can hardly tell whether Sherlock is really into it or just trying to prove that he can handle it. And 'handle' is not the point of the exercise.

Sherlock doesn't protest in the slightest when Victor presses him face-down into the pillow. He lets himself be held down. Even as his chest is starting to convulse, his head doesn't struggle to come up.

If anything, it's Victor who cannot handle Sherlock.

After a few more seconds, he twists Sherlock's head to the side to let him breathe. A dirty grin spreads over Sherlock's face, as if he'd expected Victor to go down this route, even before Victor had. Sounds just like him to be manipulated like that. Sherlock can play him like a fiddle.

Victor clamps his teeth down on Sherlock's shoulder and revels in the little jerk that rattles Sherlock.

"You still good?" he groans against Sherlock's neck.

"If you want to shake me up, you'll have to try harder," Sherlock replies, but his breathy and trembling voice ruins his bravado.

Victor bites him again, on the same spot, and his neck tickles as Sherlock throws his mop of hair back against it.

He's cute like that, hips straining against Victor, face scrunched up in concentration, mouth frozen around a cry of pain.

There's no way he can hold out much longer. When he runs his hands up Sherlock's sides, Sherlock twitches into the touch and every one of those sudden movements sends a jolt up Victor's spine.

He pulls Sherlock up by his hair and leads him forward to crush his face against the wall. Knees splayed wide, Sherlock braces himself, but only as much as to keep his balance. 

Victor thrusts back into him greedily, and it takes no time at all for his rhythm to falter and become erratic. His forehead presses into Sherlock's shoulder. He doesn't even bring up the energy to sink his teeth into it anymore.

Sherlock whimpers, fingers clawing into the wall in front of him instead of getting himself off. He can be so well-behaved when he wants to be, and Victor didn't even have to ask. Didn't even want to. Victor himself needs only a couple more jabs before he comes, back curling and hips pumping.

Victor presses Sherlock's chest into the wall with his own, nibbling on his ear and feeling smugly content. But Sherlock is still squirming, quite uncomfortably so, and the whine he lets out is soul-crushingly pitiful.

"Don't you want to get off?" Victor asks, a tad concerned, and maneuvers himself and his cumbersome limbs onto his back.

"You didn't say I could." Sherlock glares, still trembling and gnawing at his lip, but Victor suspects the intensity of it is more down to the angry red erection he's sporting rather than Victor's lack of instruction. Or perhaps it's both. Sherlock can hold a grudge for anything.

"So now it's my fault?" Victor asks absently, tying off the condom. "Since when do you ever listen to me?"

"Since six days and fifteen hours ago."

"That can't be right."

"Where orgasms are concerned."

"Ah. In that case, that might be right," Victor says and strokes the side of Sherlock's thigh. His muscles jump. "Sure you wanna keep going? I didn't think you'd be keeping this up by yourself this long."

Truth be told, he'd expected Sherlock to turn around and get off the first chance he got. But he hadn't, and his commitment makes Victor proud in a way.

"I hereby grant you permission to come, if that's what you need to hear," he says grandiosely. 

Sherlock swallows and takes a deep breath, before slowly releasing himself down onto the bed, next to Victor. "I can handle it."

"No, seriously: get off. I can't have you jumping my bones at work all the time."

"It's an experiment."

Victor rolls his eyes, because of course it is. That seems to be Sherlock's standard answer to get away with anything. 

"Suit yourself." Victor has nothing more to say to that. Sherlock can be a stubborn prick sometimes, if nothing else, and no matter what rational arguments Victor can come up wiith, Sherlock must have already made up his mind.

So he just wraps his arms around Sherlock and draws him in closer, even if that makes Sherlock stiffen and twitch some more. If he didn't want this, he figures, he'd elbow Victor and that'd be that. No more cuddling for the rest of the night.

Victor likes balling up with Sherlock, so he's actually glad the guy is not extending his bristles. Yet. He might still do that sometime during the rest of the night, but the quicker either of them falls asleep, the lower the chances for that.

And sleep sounds like a very good idea right about now.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Saudade" by John Freeman.
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/166320390120/and-because-i-cant-resist-the-kink-edition-you).


End file.
